She has no head for politics, craves good jewelry, trusts too readily, marries too early. Thenone by one she sends away her friendsand stands apart, smug sapphire, her answer to everything a slenderzero, a silent shrug--and every daystill hears me say she'll never be pretty. Instead she reads novels, instead her beltmatches her shoes. She is masterof the condolence letter, and knowshow to please a man with her mouth: Good. Nose too large, eyes too closely set, hair not glorious blonde, not her mother's red, nor the glossy black her younger sister has, the little raven I loved best.